Making Reservations
by GreyGregory14
Summary: Following "Without Reservations," the team copes with the aftermath of Face's near-fatal shooting and Stockwell's increasingly unreasonable demands. When an old friend shows up, has the team found the answer to each of their problems?
1. Murdock: Pizza Ponderings

_Author's note: This story is based on a timeline in which "Without Reservations" occurs after "The Grey Team," since "Without Reservations" was originally the last episode to air._

Murdock: Pizza Ponderings **  
**

One thing I'll never understand is why anybody says they don't like pizza. Sure, you might be partial to different toppings — the big guy tends to get all riled up at the sight of anchovies, for example — but in itself, pizza is a fairly wholesome, unassuming dietary staple. What's not to like? And for those who accuse it of being unhealthy, and refuse to eat a single warm, cheesy bite without a whole plate of salad on hand . . . well, they must not know what it's made of. Cheese, boys and girls, is absolutely brimming with protein and calcium. Add a glass of milk, and BA would be proud. And tomatoes are (drum roll please) a fruit, which takes care of maybe a quarter of your recommended daily fruit intake as defined by the government-approved food pyramid. Or, to be conservative with the numbers, maybe an eighth. And what about the grains in the light and fluffy hand-tossed crust? And don't forget about the toppings; if you're that desperate for green stuff, you can always order a little spinach to garnish the top. My point, ladies and gentlemen, is that if you plan to eat out, the last thing that's going to kill you is the pizza.

These were the thoughts meandering through my brain one overcast afternoon as I made my rounds at the Villa Cucina. Waitering is an art, and don't let anyone tell you differently. It takes a certain manner, a certain charm, a certain . . . debonairness. But — and listen closely — the mark of a successful waiter, believe it or not, is one simple thing: he makes his customers happy. And that was what I was trying my very best to do.

Ever since the Attorney General incident, business had taken off. Everyone wanted to see the restaurant owner who had singlehandedly overpowered three gunmen to save Leapster's life. Sal was very modest about the whole thing, and would tell customers who asked about the rescue that I had helped him do it, which may or may not have contributed to the good tips I was getting. Last week, being Christmas week, had shown a surplus of customers who wanted to sit under the twinkle lights and celebrate with hearty Italian cuisine. Sal joked that we'd have to set up tables on the sidewalk to make room for all the people we'd have on New Year's Eve, which was only two days away. And I had a feeling Hannibal was planning a small celebration of our own since this time we had more reasons than ever to be thankful for making it to another year.

It was awfully tempting to take this opportunity to think up a few ideas for a fantastico New Year's party — like fireworks? — but I had a job to do. I approached the couple in the corner. Focus . . . locus . . . hocus pocus . . .

"One chicken parmesan and one mostaccioli, coming right up!" Oh, horsefeathers! That was a Russian accent, not Italian. I'd just have to remember to do the Russian at their table, and if they asked about it, I could come up with a story about a Russian father and an Italian mother. The unlikely tale of two immigrants who fell in love . . . I dropped off the order for Gina in the kitchen, then stepped through the swinging doors into the restaurant area and did a double-take.

He was back. The big, balding thug who had almost put Face six feet under was sitting at his favorite table in front of the storefront window.

I crept towards the register where Sal kept his gun, refusing to turn my back on the thug. I was almost there when slowly, he turned around.

"Hey, waiter, I'm ready to order!"

It wasn't the same guy. This guy was mustache-less, with the face of a pug that looked even puggier when scrunched with indignation. I let my breath out and gripped the counter with both hands.

"B-be there in a minute," I stammered.

Crash! A scream in the kitchen. I jumped, and suddenly transported back to that night two weeks ago — the gunshot, the scream, Face crumpling to the ground. What if they were back?

I grabbed the gun and burst into the kitchen to find Sal and Gina standing around a shattered glass bowl of pepperoni on the floor.

"It's all right, Murdock, she just knock-a the dish off the table," said Sal. He frowned. "Why you carry the gun?"

"Murdock, are you all right?" said Gina, stepping closer to me. "You're white as a sheet."

"I just . . ." How could I have been so stupid? The thugs were in jail, probably for the next twenty years at least. "I just need to get some air."

I got what I asked for as soon as I opened the back door. This December had been mild for Virginia, but today there was a nasty wind, a dark omen for some real winter weather coming this way. I headed through the alley and onto the sidewalk, heart still racing like Road Runner on an adrenaline rush. Just a block down the street was a telephone booth. I shut myself in and dialed a number that only a privileged few in the world even knew about. The phone rang once, twice. Why did they make telephone booths so small? Superman must have had a hard time changing outfits in here all the time. The walls were so close, it felt like they were getting closer, closer . . .

"Lou's Delivery."

A nervous laugh escaped as I started breathing again. "Colonel, it's Murdock."

"What's the matter, Captain?"

Steady. Deep breaths. "I-I can't do this anymore."

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"There was this customer at Table 1; from the back he looked just like the guy that shot Face. And he was even at the same table. And I couldn't . . . and then the crash . . . and I was . . ."

I reached down and stroked Billy's head. "It's okay, boy. Good boy. Everything's okay."

"Murdock."

"Yeah, Colonel?" I tightened my grip on the receiver.

"Listen to me. Face is fine. He's here lying on the couch playing Sudoku. You hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear ya."

"I want you to picture that in your head, okay? Are you picturing it?"

"Yes. He's wearing his white pajamas with blue trim and those Christmas tree socks I gave him last week."

Hannibal laughed. "That works. Just remember, anytime you get worried about him or think about what happened, go back to that mental picture. Christmas tree socks and all."

"Got it. Thanks, Hannibal."

"No problem. You gonna come straight home?"

"Well, I need to say goodbye to Sal and Gina. I hate to run out on them like this, but I just don't think . . ." I trailed off.

"It's for the best, Captain," said Hannibal comfortingly.

"And maybe I should pick up a pizza, since this'll be my last day working here and all."

"How about you make that two pizzas — one with half pepperoni, half sausage, and another with just anchovies. Oh, and while you're at it, pick up some breadsticks and a salad."

"Will do."

"Thanks, Murdock. See you soon."

"Adios, amigo."

I hung up, took a deep breath, and emerged from the telephone booth onto the bustling DC sidewalk. Mentally I prepared for taking leave of Sal and Gina. It was sad to leave such nice people so suddenly, but they would understand. What I was not prepared for was the sudden gasp and exclamation of "Murdock!" from six feet away. I looked up and saw the last person I expected to see.

"Amy Allen?"


	2. Hannibal: Critical Calls

Hannibal: Critical Calls

Having a highly secured home number means two things: you never get sales calls, and any call you do receive is usually important. On this particular afternoon, there were three calls. BA was outside tuning up the van, Frankie was in the living room trying to fix the TV so Face could get another channel, and Murdock was at work, leaving me to answer the phone.

The first call was Stockwell, trying to rope us into a mission since our "allotted time" of two weeks was up. When I protested that Face wasn't ready to be back on his feet, he said the mission was "time sensitive" and suggested we leave without him. I flatly refused and hung up. What gall! I found it hard to believe even Stockwell would suggest we leave Face now, when he needed us most, to go gallivanting through a foreign country or whatnot. Now was the time for us to stick together. The near death of one of our team had shaken every one of us to the core. Proof of this came in the second call, this one from Murdock. He sounded distracted and upset while describing an incident which could have been real or just a flashback. Once he began talking to Billy, it was hard to tell just how grounded he was. Since Murdock was released from the V.A. he had been acting like the slightly goofy but normal Captain I knew in 'Nam. I had forgotten to worry that he might have a relapse, until now. I made a mental note to have a talk with him later to figure out what was going on and try to fix any problems before they got out of control.

My priorities suddenly shifted when I got the third phone call about twenty minutes later. It was Murdock again, but this time he was speaking in code.

"Colonel, I found this package of really good cigars. They've come all the way from Jakarta."

"Jakarta?"

"Yeah. I hear they're big news in L.A. They're not Cubans, but the seller says they should taste good, like an old friend."

I started putting it together. "Does the seller know that Mr. Lee's laundry is under new ownership?"

"They know it's still in business, but they haven't heard about the new owner. These look like good quality cigars to me. Do you want me to buy them?"

I thought hard, weighing the implications, the possibilities . . . "Why not? Buy them and bring them home."

"Pizza and cigars will be delivered to your door in fifteen minutes. Don't forget to take out the trash."

"We'll get right on it."

After hanging up I called BA in from the driveway, and we joined Frankie and Face in the living room.

"All right, men, it's time to take out the trash."

The three of them shot me curious glances, but they knew better than to ask questions. Frankie retrieved the bug detectors, and he, BA, and I scoured the house for bugs. Face simply smiled and took exaggerated poses of relaxation until BA made him get up so we could check the couch. The search took a little longer than usual since Christmas decorations were still up. Face had gotten out of the hospital three days before Christmas, and we had managed to get a small tree and a few strings of lights, so although our celebration was more subdued than usual, at least we were all together.

When the house checked out, we regrouped in the living room.

"Hey Johnny, you wanna tell us what all the commotion's about?" said Frankie.

"Gentlemen," I said, pausing to relish their suspense, "I am pleased to announce that we will be having a visitor."

"A visitor?" BA exclaimed. "Who?"

"Someone Murdock ran across. He said it was an old friend, at least I think he did. He was using code since it was the house phone." Then it occurred to me: what if that whole conversation had meant something completely different than I thought? Worse yet, what if the "old friend" was just a hallucination?

"Do you have any idea who he was talking about?" asked Face.

I covered my misgivings with a secretive smile. "You'll find out in a few minutes."

"How are they gonna get through security?" said Frankie.

"I'm sure Murdock's got something worked out."

"Yeah, he always had a thing for bypassing security," Face remarked. "I remember when we had to come up with a new excuse every week to get him out of the V.A. According to his medical record, he's had about every non-terminal disease and condition on the planet." He sighed. "Those were the days."

I laughed at the nostalgic expression he was wearing. "Don't worry, Face, it's probably just the painkiller talking."

"He's here," said BA, looking out the window. "Don't see anyone with him."

Frankie, BA, and I crowded in front of the glass. There was no one visible in the car except for Murdock in the driver's seat. Things were worse than I thought. Maybe he really was having a relapse.

"Guys, what's happening? I can't see!" Face called from the couch.

"He's getting out of the car," Frankie narrated, "and he's going around to the back. He's opening the door, and . . . wow."

Frankie's exclamation echoed all of our surprise as a woman suddenly climbed out of the back seat. Her hair was just below chin-length and dark brown, but her face was unmistakable.

"It's Amy!" said BA. "Amy Allen!"

"What?" said Face. "Are you sure?"

"Hey guys, who's Amy Allen?" Frankie asked.

Murdock walked back to the passenger side and pulled out two cardboard pizza boxes plus two smaller boxes. He started carrying them toward the door, with Amy following behind.

"She's a reporter from the L.A. Courier who did stories on a few of our cases a while back," I answered Frankie.

"Come on, Hannibal, she did a lot more than that," Face argued. "For a while she was practically an extension of the team."

The doorbell rang, and I answered it. Murdock burst in, grinning from ear to ear over the stack of boxes in his arms.

"Thanks, Colonel! Did you take out the trash?"

"You bet," I replied, his enthusiasm rubbing off on me, mixed with relief that the visitor was present and accounted for.

"Man, I hoped the old blanket on the floor trick would work, and it did! We made it through security!" He tried to hand the boxes off to BA, but BA only grunted, so he passed them to Frankie instead. Then he gestured dramatically towards our guest. "Gentlemen, allow me to present Miss Amy Amanda Allen. Miss Allen returned from Jakarta and has in fact been working in DC for the past month. Miss Allen," he nodded at her and stepped back.

Amy was silent, her gaze falling on each of us in turn. "Wow," she said at last, "I can't believe it. It's been so long."

She and I made eye contact, and her gaze flickered away. Her face was thinner and more drawn than before, and the dark brunette hair was not her natural color. For a second there was a certain look in her eyes — a lost look, one that had become almost commonplace in 'Nam, one that I saw afterward reflected in the eyes of my men at different times when they were struggling to find meaning in what life brought their way. Whatever Miss Allen sought, she had not found it in Jakarta.

"It has been a long time," I said, trying my best not to sound unfriendly. It seemed to work, since she looked at me again and continued talking.

"I was still in Jakarta when I heard the news about the trial. By then, it was too late. I couldn't believe you guys were caught. I couldn't believe you were dead. And then I heard you had escaped, but I never dreamed of running into you like this. It's just so good to see you!" she finished breathlessly.

"It's good to see you too, Amy," BA spoke up. To my surprise, he came forward and wrapped her in a hug.

"Hear, hear!" Murdock said, clapping. BA shot him a glare.

I reached out and gave Amy a firm handshake. "Welcome back, kid."

"Thank you." She turned to Frankie and jumped, startled. "Oh, I thought you were Face. I mean, I didn't see you behind the boxes."

Frankie shifted the food in his arms to give Amy the full benefit of his biggest smile. "The name's Frankie. Frankie Santana."

"Pleased to meet you," she said, regaining her composure.

"The pleasure is all mine. I'm the special effects whiz in this outfit, and I'm in charge of the, uh, entertainment while Faceman's out of commission, so if you're free anytime in the next few days —"

"Don't let the 'Santana charm' fool you, Amy," Face called.

"Oh, there you are!" Amy hurried over to the couch, and Frankie's smile faded. I considered hinting to him that he had nothing to worry about, but decided not to. It would be much more interesting to sit back and watch things play out.

"Pajamas in the afternoon, hmm." Amy raised her eyebrows. "I thought you had a better sense of style, Face."

"Well, unfortunately, style is one of the lesser considerations after you've been shot in the abdomen."

"You were shot? How? I mean, what happened?"

Face shrugged. "We were trying to take down a hit squad and forgot the guy in the corner."

Amy shook her head sympathetically. "How bad is it?"

"Oh, not too bad. Just had to have part of my spleen removed and lost some blood, but nothing, uh, irreplaceable."

"You was lucky to see Christmas, man," BA corrected.

"Well, I can see you're taking full advantage of your situation." Amy gestured at the pile of books and TV remote on the coffee table. "Sudoku, Picasso Drawings—"

"I would be reading War and Peace, but the medications make it a little hard to concentrate." Face smiled. "Although, if someone were to read to me . . ."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Frankie edging towards the dining room with the pizzas. I cleared my throat. "Uh, I hate to break up this meaningful discussion, but I do believe the pizza's getting cold. If you're up to joining us, Lieutenant, we can continue this conversation over dinner."

"Sounds good to me," said Face. He rose slowly, wincing, but waved me off when he noticed I was watching.

"I'll get the drinks," Murdock offered.

"I got the pizza," said Frankie, shooting another smile at Amy. The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement. One thing was clear: this was going to be an interesting meal.


	3. Face: Stopping Stockwell

Face: Stopping Stockwell

Although I can't speak from experience, I imagine those awkward Thanksgiving dinners with extended family that I've heard about would have an atmosphere similar to this meal. Amy looked like Snow White surrounded by five of the seven dwarfs, none of whom were inclined to make conversation. BA, of course, has always been the dictionary definition of the strong and silent type, but Murdock had fallen unusually quiet, Frankie was busy shooting furtive glances in Amy's direction, and Hannibal didn't seem to have much to say. He had been acting strangely ever since Amy's visit came up. I guess I had expected him to show more excitement at seeing her again, or at least to be a little friendlier, but there was a distance between the two of them that they both appeared to be aware of. When Amy had left suddenly for Jakarta years ago, Hannibal had relayed the news but hadn't gone into detail. I had always wondered if there was more to the story, but now I began to think the reason had something to do with the Colonel himself. Perhaps later I could utilize my expertise in the art of persuasion to get him to tell me about it. I might not even have to try too hard. These last two weeks I could have merely mentioned wanting a new Corvette and he would have gone out and bought it for me himself. It kind of took the fun out of asking for things.

The lull in conversation was well on the way to becoming a regular radio silence. Since three bites of pizza were already sitting heavily in my opiate-harassed digestive system, I put eating on hold and took it upon myself to get the metaphorical ball rolling.

"So, uh, Amy, what brings you to D.C.?"

Amy set her forkful of salad down, apparently relieved at the excuse to break the silence. "Well, actually, I came up after Thanksgiving to cover the AJ Bancroft story, and I've been covering political stories here ever since."

At the mention of AJ the rest of us exchanged glances.

"What is it?" she said. "Did I miss something?"

I turned to Hannibal, unsure of how much he thought we should say. He spoke up, "AJ Bancroft was one of our clients. We arranged the meeting between him and his daughter so he could give her the diary."

"The diary was found because of you guys?" Amy lit up with more than the appropriate amount of excitement.

"Now, Miss Allen," said Hannibal, "before you put our names on the front page of the next paper, we are undercover. I don't know how much Murdock has told you, but our situation here is complicated."

A car door slamming brought the discussion to a halt.

"Is that —" I began.

"Murdock, take Amy to the kitchen," Hannibal ordered. "And take her stuff."

Murdock picked up Amy's plate and cup and carried them out, followed by a bewildered Amy.

"What about her chair?" Frankie asked.

The front door opened. Hannibal shook his head. The chair would be fine since it was the one I usually sat in, and I was currently occupying an upholstered chair from the den for comfort. We all began eating again as footsteps pounded across the hardwood floor toward the dining room.

"Gentlemen," came a familiar voice from behind me. "I see I have disturbed your dinner."

"Indeed you have," said Hannibal, taking a deliberate bite of pizza as he stared down the intruder. I twisted around to see how the General was reacting and instantly realized it was a mistake. Sharp pain stabbed my side, and it was all I could do not to let out a yelp.

"Here, Face, I found the Thousand Island," called Murdock, rushing in with a bottle of salad dressing.

I quickly took control of my expression and played along. "Ah, thanks." It wasn't until he handed me the dressing that I realized I had no salad on my plate to put it on. The salad bowl was sitting in front of Amy's empty place. Although BA had plopped down across from her before Frankie had the chance, Frankie had managed to snag the seat on her right and my left.

"I regret the interruption," Stockwell said, coming down the two steps to stand next to Murdock and me, "but unfortunately, it is necessary that I take a few minutes of your time."

"Frankie," I whispered. He turned, and I motioned toward the salad.

"Or I can save time by giving you your answer right now, Stockwell," said Hannibal. "And the answer is no."

Frankie passed the salad bowl. I reached out to grab it, and the pain intensified, causing me to nearly drop the bowl. Thankfully Frankie was watching Stockwell again. Gently, I set the bowl on the table and concentrated on putting lettuce on my plate with the smallest amount of movement necessary.

Stockwell strode over to stand by Hannibal. "Colonel, I am well aware of your current sentiments on the matter. What I am interested in is what your men have to say."

"How can we say anything when we have no idea what you're talking about?" asked Frankie.

Stockwell raised his eyebrows. "You don't mean to tell me that the Colonel has told you nothing about your next mission?"

"A mission?" BA exclaimed. "We ain't going on no mission!"

"Don't speak so hastily, Mr. Baracus. You may find it in your best interest to hear what I have to say."

Murdock raised a hand. "Excuse me, General, but I think what the big guy's trying to say is, we're not ready for a mission. I mean, Faceman just got out of the hospital last week."

I paused with serving tongs in midair to give Stockwell a broad smile. If I was going to throw a wrench in his plans, I might as well enjoy it to the fullest.

"That is unfortunate," Stockwell remarked, "especially when your pardons are at stake." He paused to let the statement sink in. "However, I would not be opposed to your performing the mission in the absence of Mr. Peck. If you were to succeed, you and he would be equally rewarded."

Frankie spoke up. "By 'rewarded', do you mean you would get us our pardons?"

Stockwell nodded.

"So, this would be our last mission?"

"You are correct, Mr. Santana," he replied.

"Hey, that doesn't sound too bad to me."

"Not a chance," Hannibal declared.

"Hold it, Johnny, what do you mean? This is what we've been waiting for!"

"Face is not ready to travel, and we are not leaving a man behind."

"Can't I decide if I'm ready?" I said, but nobody paid attention. My left side felt as if a malicious giant had plunged his hand inside and was squeezing what was left of my spleen inside his hairy fist.

"No way, man!" said BA. "Nobody separate the A-Team!"

"In case your memory has failed you, Stockwell," said Hannibal, "the last time we did it your way I almost ended up as fish food for the local Hong Kong mackerel."

"Yes, but that was a solo mission, if you recall," Stockwell objected. "This time you would have your team on hand, minus one man."

Murdock shoved his chair back and stood to his feet, startling everyone. He paused for a moment, surveying his audience, before speaking. "There were three of us in the restaurant the night Face was shot," he said evenly. "The reason he almost died is because we didn't have the other two. It wasn't until the whole team was together that we pounded those thugs into the ground. I think we should go as a team, or not go at all."

He sat back down amid a heavy silence. Then, everyone started talking at once.

"Well, I don't see why we can't take Face with us."

"He can't even hardly walk around."

"What about our pardons?"

"You're forgetting that we have to complete the mission first, Frankie."

"Yeah, what if we mess up?"

"We haven't messed up yet."

At the moment, I wished I could be anywhere else but here. It was bad enough that I was keeping the team out of missions, but if we lost our last hope of pardons too . . .

I stood up and told the team not to worry, I was ready for the mission. At least, that's what happened in my head. In actuality, what transpired was that I made it about three inches off my seat before the invisible hand twisted inside my gut, and I collapsed, moaning.

"Face, are you okay?" Murdock was at my elbow in less than a second. His expression of concern became obscured by the gray blobs taking over a significant portion of my vision.

"Yeah, I just moved a little too fast." The pinch in my side showed no signs of abating yet. My stomach churned.

"You're really pale, kid," said Hannibal suddenly from close by.

"I'll be fine." I got up more slowly this time, saving my spleen, but wobbling as I felt how lightheaded I actually was.

Hannibal tried to push me back into my seat, but I stood my ground, not only because Stockwell was watching, but because I had to prove to the team that I could go on that mission.

"Don't blame me if you pass out."

"I'm fine. I just need to lie down," I insisted. My hand gripped the back of the chair, and sweat broke out on my forehead. Inhale through the nose, count to five, exhale through the mouth . . .

"BA," Hannibal called, "help me get him to bed. Murdock, go find the painkiller. Frankie," with a note of sarcasm, "please entertain our guest."

Murdock ran ahead as BA and Hannibal supported me on each side as we made our way at a snail's pace up the steps and out. When we reached the living room, Frankie's voice drifted up from the dining room saying, "So, how 'bout some pizza?"

Once I was tucked in bed, medicated, and no longer seeing spots, Hannibal sent BA and Murdock out to "give Stockwell a proper sendoff." Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, wearing the stern superior officer frown that always had me racking my brain for anything I had done that could get me in trouble.

"We need to have a talk, Lieutenant," he said.

Nothing came to mind — I hadn't exactly had a lot of opportunities to misbehave over the last few days — but his tone still made me nervous. "Sounds terrific. What do you want to talk about? The weather? Foreign policy? The price of tea in China?"

"What happened back there?"

Was that all? "I moved around too quickly, and my side started hurting again. Sorry I interrupted your discussion of my welfare." My voice came out more sarcastic than I intended, but I was, after all, slightly annoyed.

Hannibal laughed. "You have a point. Next time I'll try to ask for your opinion before I give it to you. And you could have interrupted sooner — your argument was a lot more effective than mine."

I groaned as I realized what he meant. "But I want to go on the mission!"

He shook his head. "If the display I saw back there is any indication, you won't be going on missions for a while yet."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Hannibal, that was only because—" I stopped myself too late.

"Because of what, Lieutenant?" Hannibal's eyes are a lovely ice blue that grows brighter when they are aimed directly at your soul. There was no getting out of it now.

"I, uh, think I missed a dose of painkiller."

"Just one?"

Why did he have to catch on so quickly? "Maybe two."

"Face, I watched you take your meds once this morning and once this afternoon. You don't have to explain the slight of hand to me, but I do want to know why you conned me."

That disappointed gaze hurt worse than a glare. He was trying to send me on a guilt trip, and it was working. I couldn't tell him the whole truth, but I'd certainly tell him nothing but the truth.

"Aw, Hannibal, it's just that I hate feeling, you know . . . drugged all the time. I can't even think straight, not to mention being dizzy, and sleepy, and nauseated, and cold, and, well, really itchy. It's like having a chronic case of the flu but without the congestion. And it stinks."

Hannibal sighed. "I know it's no fun, but unfortunately that's the way it's gonna be for a few more days until you can stop the painkiller without staging a repeat of tonight's drama. Be glad you're still around to feel itchy."

"Yeah, I know." I preferred not to think too much about how close to death I had actually come. Long ago I'd accepted the fact that this line of work could be the end of me, but there were a few things I'd prefer to do first, such as get out from under Stockwell's ever-present thumb.

"Actually, kid, you've been a good sport about this whole thing. Abdominal injuries are no joke, and you lost part of your spleen and had serious internal bruising. You've done far less than your share of complaining. It's been good to see."

I blinked. Somehow the lecture had turned into a compliment. No doubt about it, Hannibal was a pushover these days.

"Does that mean I can go on the mission?" I asked hopefully.

"Hold on. I didn't say we were going on the mission at all."

"But if our pardons are at stake, why is it such a big deal if I stay behind? I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to a little peace and quiet, maybe a nice nurse or two to make sure I take my meds on time."

"How about being used as Stockwell's bargaining chip?"

I looked up quickly. "What do you mean?"

"What bothers me is the way Stockwell's been pushing for us to do this mission, with or without you. He's desperate for something, and I wouldn't put it past him to use you as collateral to make sure we do exactly what he wants."

"You mean he might take me hostage while you guys are gone?"

"Exactly."

In my weakened state, I couldn't put up much of a fight if anyone did try to overpower me. As far as the team was concerned, I was nothing but a liability. All the blood drained from my face. "I . . . never thought of that."

"Hey." Hannibal squeezed my shoulder. "Don't look so worried, kid. We're not going to leave you behind, no matter what happens. Okay?"

I nodded, more relieved than I cared to admit. "Okay."

Hannibal rose to his feet. "Now that we're on the same page, will you be all right if I go take care of a few things? I suspect Miss Allen will need a long, detailed explanation of what just happened."

"No problem. I can feel a nap coming on anyway."

"Good. I'll send Murdock in later. If you need anything, just call." He picked up one of two walkie-talkies from the side table and hooked it onto his belt before walking out. I settled into my pillow, thankful for Hannibal's understanding, relieved that I had gotten off so easy, and a tiny bit frustrated that I'd forgotten to ask him about Amy. Soon, however, these thoughts merged into a content relaxation that looked a lot like sleep . . .


	4. BA: The Vanishing Van

BA: The Vanishing Van

After Stockwell left, I backed the van into the garage so I could keep working. It was getting dark outside, and the air was getting cold. Might have to put a jacket on, but I could wait a little longer. Chicago was a lot colder than this. Momma said it was in the 20s last week. Hope her apartment was warm enough. I'd check the insulation of the windows, maybe caulk the sides.

I knelt down next to the van's right front tire and unscrewed the valve stem cap. Good thing we weren't going on Stockwell's fool mission. Face was getting better, and Hannibal wouldn't need me to stick around much longer. If I left Wednesday morning, I could drive all day and be there for Thursday at least. As long as I had two days, didn't matter what happened after that.

The door shut, and somebody walked over. I didn't look up.

"Hey, whatcha doin'?" It was Frankie. I put the pressure gauge in the tire and let him answer his own question.

"I see you're wearing my Christmas present," he said. He had given me a gold chain with what he said was a scarab beetle hanging on it.

"Don't have much choice since you burned most of my gold," I said.

"Uh-uh, you were the one who burned your own gold because you didn't follow directions. But being the generous soul that I am, I decided to make it up to you. Even though it wasn't my fault in the first place. So anyway . . . why are you still working out here?"

Tire pressure was good. I got up to check the left front tire.

"If we're not going on the mission, then you don't have to get the van ready, right?" said Frankie.

I shook my head. "Gotta keep it in good shape." Seven hundred miles was a long drive. Didn't have extra time for breaking down.

"Look, I know you like to take care of your van, but this is overkill. You've been working out here all day for the past three days. What's left to do?"

I let a little air into the tire. "Man, why you gotta ask so many questions? You worse than Murdock."

I got up to go to the next tire, but Frankie stood in front of me. "Lemme tell you something," he said, touching my chest with his finger. "I've had my eye on you, and I think there's something you're not telling me."

Now Frankie was trying to get involved in my business. Just what I needed. That guy got a big mouth, and if he found out, everyone would know.

"What I ain't tellin' you is you in my way. Move, sucker."

Frankie backed away with his hands up. "Okay, okay. If you don't wanna talk about it, we don't have to. But if you ever want someone to listen, give some advice, maybe give you a hand—" he pointed at himself "— I'm right here."

When Frankie came on our first mission for Stockwell, I thought he was just a big talker who didn't know nothing. Then he and Murdock saved our lives. Turned out he wasn't so bad after all.

"What you want, man?" I said.

Frankie came closer and lowered his voice. "This ship is sinkin', man! If we lose our pardons, we got nothing. I just wanna make sure we're on the same team."

"Sure we are. We on the A-Team."

He shook his head. "No. You're on the A-Team. I just tag along for the ride. And if we don't get our pardons and you leave—"

"What you talkin' about? I never said I was leavin'!"

Frankie laughed. "Come on, it's obvious, man. You've been working like crazy on the van for the past three days, not to mention disappearing several times over the last couple weeks."

"I been gettin' groceries!" I argued. The man saw more than I thought.

"Nobody buys a quart of milk every few days when they could buy a couple gallons once to last a week, especially you." He crossed his arms. "If I had to guess, I'd say you're using grocery shopping as a cover for whatever it is you're actually doing. But that's just a guess."

No doubt about it, I was caught. If I didn't tell him what was going on, he might tell Hannibal, and then I'd really be in trouble.

"Okay, you're right. If I tell you what I'm doing, you promise not to tell anybody?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Frankie grinned.

"You better hope to die if you tell. Now, I been goin' out and talkin' to my momma on the pay phone since I don't want Stockwell to hear everything we say. She ain't doing too good. Had pneumonia. I'm gonna go see her and make sure she all right."

"You're gonna drive all the way to Chicago without telling anybody?"

I shook my head. "They got enough to worry about. 'Sides, if they don't know where I am, they can't tell Stockwell."

"Yeah, and what about Stockwell? He won't be too happy you tried to escape. He'll send his men after you to bring you back, and then bad things could happen."

"As long as I get a day with my momma, it don't matter what he do."

Frankie shifted on his feet. "I don't know, BA. You sure you don't wanna run this by Johnny first?"

"I told you, Hannibal got enough to worry about lookin' after Face. And he'd probably try to stop me, so you better not tell him either."

"I won't. But you do know Stockwell's gonna think we all know where you went, right? What if he starts threatening us? With Face like he is, we can't just pack up and go on the run, especially if you have the van."

I hadn't thought about that. Maybe there was a few bugs to work out of this plan. "I don't know, Frankie. But I gotta make sure Momma's all right."

"Can you at least think about it before you leave? I don't wanna be left high and dry, and I bet the other guys would say the same if they knew what you were planning."

He had a point. "Okay, I will. But in the mean time, how about you help me with gettin' the van ready?"

Frankie smiled. "Sure thing, my friend. I told you I'm here to help."

"Good. Go get me some water and baking soda. We're gonna clean the battery terminals."


	5. Murdock: Facing Face

Murdock: Facing Face

On the left and on the right loomed the rolling hills of Virginia, which for all practical purposes obscured any view of the highly secured, secret residence in which Stockwell housed the A-Team. Not even a ray of light leaked into the darkness to give a beacon of hope to weary travelers with nothing but their headlights to show the way. The property was remarkably secluded for being only a twenty minute drive from the nation's capital. The clock on the dash said 6:39, which numbers were perfect to arrange into an equation: 9-3=6, or 9%3+3=6, or 6x3%9=6%3. It also meant that ETA was about three minutes.

Two weeks ago at this time we were taking down the hit squad at the restaurant. Three minutes from now BA and Hannibal were rushing Face to D.C. General. Frankie and I took down the dirty cop, and ten minutes later we joined the guys in the waiting room while Face was in surgery. About five minutes later I had a panic attack in the washroom. Then I lost track of time as we waited for the news that Face had made it through surgery and blood transfusion, and we could visit him in the ICU. For the long day and a half that he was unconscious, I went through the scenario over and over again, trying to figure out what variable to change in the equation for a different result. Maybe if Hannibal and BA had been there; maybe if we had found out about the guy on Table 1; maybe if I hadn't asked Face to check the guy's ID; maybe if I hadn't invited Face and Frankie to the restaurant at all . . .

I swerved as I almost missed the turn. The rugged back road changed to a smooth paved driveway as I drove up to the security booth. The temperature had dropped; rolling down the window was like opening a freezer door. The guard was the dark-haired guy I gave a piece of pizza last week, and he let me past as soon as he saw who I was. It paid to be on good terms with security — another tip Face ought to put in that pamphlet on cons whenever he got around to writing it.

The van was gone when I pulled up in front of the house, but various clinks and clangs were coming from the garage, which meant BA was most likely working on it in there. I grabbed my duffel bag from the back seat and entered the house. I didn't usually stay here overnight, but after dinner Hannibal had asked me to spend the night on "Face watch" to give the other guys a break. When Face came home from the hospital, the guys converted the downstairs guest room into his room and started taking turns sleeping in there at night in case he needed anything. The first few days had been rough, especially since opiates tended not to agree with him, but now that he was stronger and more mobile, helping him consisted mainly of picking up things he dropped and making sure he took his medications on time.

In the living room, Hannibal and Amy were sitting on the couch, deep in conversation. Hannibal looked up when he saw me come in.

"How's it going, Murdock?" he called.

"Great," I said, forcing a smile. "I, uh, brought all the stuff for a sleepover — except I think I forgot the book of ghost stories."

He laughed. "Good. It's still early, so you don't have to go in there yet. Face might be sleeping, so if you'll check on him periodically until you turn in for the night, that would be perfect."

"I can do that."

"Also, would you mind taking him these?" Hannibal picked up Face's books from the coffee table. "He gets irritated if he doesn't have them within reach."

I nodded and took the books under one arm. The painkiller made Face inexplicably volatile at times — once I thought he was going to have a nervous breakdown after I picked up his Sudoku book to do a puzzle.

"Thanks for the help, Murdock."

"No problem, Colonel."

As I turned and headed down the back hall, I had a sudden thought: hopefully I wouldn't have nightmares tonight. These past two weeks I had bad dreams at least every other night, some of them old 'Nam memories, but most of them involving watching Face die in front of me until I woke up with my blood curdled like cottage cheese. Back at the V.A. I would've gone to see Dr. Richter for advice, but I couldn't do that now, and I didn't want to bother the rest of the team when they were probably dealing with their own problems, on top of tonight's encounter with Stockwell.

Once inside Face's room I left the door open a crack so I had just enough light to see my way around. Based on the sound of heavy breathing, Face was fast asleep. Quietly, I crept over to the side table and set the books down. As I turned away, the duffel bag in my other hand sideswiped the table, and before I knew what was happening the table and its contents fell over with a crash.

A loud gasp came from two feet away. I cringed. Great job, Murdock.

"It's all right, I just knocked the table over," I said.

"Murdock, is that you?" Face said thickly.

"Yeah, it's me. Give me a sec to get some light on the subject." I righted the table lamp, which I guess could now be called a floor lamp, and fumbled for the switch.

The light revealed that a water glass had spilled its contents among the wreckage. Two of the books had escaped with barely a scratch, but the Sudoku book was soaked through.

"Oh man." I held it up, chagrined. "I'm sorry, Face. Maybe it'll be fine once it dries out." I opened the book and started peeling the pages apart.

"What are you doing?!" In a matter of seconds, Face went from blinking groggily to gaping in horror. "Give it to me!" He lunged for the book, then fell back with a groan.

"Take it easy, here, here you go," I handed him the book. "Are you okay?"

Face didn't seem to hear the question. "Oh no!" he said, staring at the book, his face slowly twisting with devastation. "How could you?" he demanded, voice trembling. "You ruined it! You ruined everything!"

The words hit me so hard in the gut I felt like I was suffocating. He had stated out loud what I had known all along — it was all my fault. Everything I did to help my best friend only made things worse, until he almost died because of me. I was responsible.

"I-I'm sorry," I stammered. "It was an accident." Coming here had been a mistake. I should leave. I'd tell the Colonel that . . . well, I didn't know what to tell him. I'd think of something. I just couldn't stick around any longer and risk causing more damage.

Face suddenly sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It's okay," he said. "You're right, once it dries out it should be fine."

I was speechless, unsure how to interpret this abrupt change of response.

"I didn't mean to overreact," he said as if noticing my confusion. "It's just these meds, you know — I've kind of lost control of my, uh, equilibrium."

"Maybe . . . maybe you should try to go back to sleep. I'll clean this up."

I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, mopped up the water on the floor, refilled the water glass in the sink, and replaced the items on the table. When all had been set in order, I picked up my duffel bag.

"If you don't need anything else, I'll ask Hannibal to come check on you in a little while."

Face stopped meticulously pulling apart the pages of the Sudoku book. "Wait, where are you going?"

"I think it's time for me to head home."

"But I thought you were going to stay the night." The slight whine in his voice and disappointment in his eyes reminded me of Billy when he thought I had forgotten to feed him.

What could I say now? "I just . . . I don't think it's such a good idea, anymore."

"Why not?"

"Well, I knocked over the table and ruined your book —"

"I'm not mad at you," he interrupted. "The book'll dry. Actually, I'm getting sick of Sudoku. Can't we talk for a bit? I never see you anymore."

This resistance was not what I had anticipated. "But I come over almost every day after work."

Face shrugged. "Yeah, and you barely give me the time of day. Not even a daily news bulletin. Usually I have to beg you to shut up, but now . . . come to think of it, I can't remember the last time we had a real conversation. It's been pretty boring."

"I guess I haven't had much to talk about." I started edging towards the door.

"Murdock, you never run out of things to talk about!" He frowned and scratched vigorously at his arm. "You're not avoiding me, are you?"

"No, 'course not." I came to a halt.

"Then what's the problem?"

Face waited expectantly for my answer. He had backed me into a corner, and now I didn't know what to tell him. Generally, the old adage of "honesty is the best policy" holds true, especially when dealing with someone who not only cons for a living but also is your best friend. I would try to explain, and hope he would understand.

"Okay, I have been avoiding you," I admitted. "It's just that whenever I look at you, I feel . . . guilt, all over again."

His eyebrows shot up. "Guilt? About what?"

With the toe of my shoe, I traced the circumference of a spot in the grain of the wood floor. "Well, if I hadn't asked you to the restaurant in the first place, and if I hadn't had you take down the hit squad, then you wouldn't have gotten shot. You wouldn't have died."

Face laughed nervously and scratched his other arm. "But Murdock, I didn't die."

"But you could have. You were this close the whole time, and if you had, I couldn't . . . I couldn't live with myself."

"What are you talking about? It wasn't your fault I got shot."

"Yes, yes it was!" I blurted. All the frustration and fear and regret rushed out like poking a hole in an inflatable raft. "You just don't understand. Everything I do for you turns out all wrong! I destroyed your only chance to meet your father, and then I put you in a situation where you got shot and almost died. Every time I'm around you, bad things happen. I can't even touch your stuff without ruining it!" I swallowed hard, hearing again the raw hurt in his voice only a few minutes ago. "I'm a terrible friend, and I think it would be best for you if I didn't hang around any longer. I'll just . . . leave."

My duffel was in my hand, and I was ready to go, but for some reason I couldn't walk away. I needed to know what Face thought, what he would say. In the silence that followed, I studied the irregular shapes and textures in the floor, waiting for I knew not what.

At last Face spoke. "Murdock, you remember when we had that fight after you told me about AJ, and I said you were always the one I thought I could count on?"

He waited for me to nod before continuing. "Well, I meant what I said. Ever since we met in 'Nam, you've been a real friend to me. You've always tried to do the right thing, even when it was hard. You didn't tell me about AJ because you thought it was best for me at the time. Of course I'm disappointed I didn't get to talk to my father more, but I know you did what you believed was right, and if circumstances had been different, I would have been thanking you for it."

I nodded again, recognizing the arguments I had used to justify my actions to Face on that fateful Thanksgiving day. Funny how I was the one who needed convincing now.

"And think about what would've happened if we hadn't taken down the hit squad," he continued. "The Attorney General would be dead! But because of you, he's still walking around, and a bunch of thugs are in jail for a well-deserved twenty years. So I get shot in the line of duty? That's a risk we have to take in a job like ours. Remember what we learned in 'Nam? You can't second guess yourself, and you can't blame yourself for what the enemy does. Murdock, you didn't pull the trigger and shoot me; they did. And when I was lying on the floor in the back, completely helpless, bleeding to death, I knew that if anyone was going to save us, it was you. And you came through. You figured out how to contact Hannibal and BA, and we made it out of there without anyone else getting hurt."

The man was talking sense, as BA would put it. A germ of hope took hold, and I dared to look up. Face shot me a sad smile.

"You know better than anyone else," he said quietly, "that this last month or so has been hard for me. Seems like everything's been hitting close to home, and working for Stockwell hasn't made it easier. I've had to confront a lot of . . . personal demons. But you've always been there for me, and it means a lot more than I can say. So quit blaming yourself for my bad luck. You're the best friend a guy could ask for, and don't let anyone ever tell you differently, okay?"

At that moment, I didn't feel like I deserved the credit he gave me; but I knew I didn't deserve the judgment I'd pronounced on myself. I blinked away the blurriness in my eyes. "Okay. Thanks."

Face smiled. "Thank you, buddy."

Then the smile became preoccupied, and turned into an apologetic grin. "So, now that your therapy session is over, would you mind trading places on the couch?" He sighed and ran his hand back through his hair. "I mean, look at me, Murdock. I can't do much of anything for anybody right now, and it's killing me. There's no telling what's going to happen with Stockwell and this whole pardon fiasco, and if all hell breaks loose, I'm pretty useless in a fight. But there is one thing I've been able to do, and that's plan. Now, if I show you what I've been working on, can you keep it a secret? Not a word to anybody, not even Hannibal."

I dropped my bag on the floor and sat down on the fluffy brown comforter, careful not to shake the bed too much. "You 'ave intrigued me, _monsieur._ How can I say anysing but, _oui oui, allez-y_!"

Face laughed — not a courtesy laugh, but a real one. "All right, then. Take a look at this." Then he did the last thing I expected: he handed me the Sudoku book.

Confused, I opened the book to the first page. The only thing there was the nine square grid of a completed puzzle.

"You have to go a few pages in," Face instructed.

I turned the soggy pages and came upon a page with doodles covering the margins. Doodles and notes.

"Canada, Cuba, Venezuela, Britain, Switzerland, France," I read down a list that filled the space to the left of the grid.

"I was brainstorming places we could go once we escape."

"Hey, you can draw Snoopy pretty good," I said, seeing the familiar cartoon dog leaning up against a rough outline of France. Then it hit me. "Escape? You mean, escape Stockwell?"

"Of course. If we're not getting our pardons, we'll have to figure out a way out of the country, where Stockwell can't punish us."

I flipped through more similarly decorated pages containing, along with random drawings, names of airports, diagrams, checklists . . . "But you couldn't have come up with all this tonight."

"I've had plenty of time on my hands the last two weeks," he shrugged. "No one's peeking over my shoulder to make sure I'm actually doing Sudoku. Even Stockwell wouldn't think to look in here. If someone happened to get any farther than the first few pages, hopefully the doodles would throw them off track."

"So that's why you got so angry when you thought I ruined the book."

Face looked a little sheepish. "Yeah. At least I have an excuse for acting neurotic while I'm on this painkiller. Although the brain fog is frustrating, which is why I tried to go without today. By the way, thanks for that tip you gave me a while back about pretending to swallow a pill while keeping it under your tongue."

I grinned, remembering the advice I'd given Face one time when Hannibal and BA wanted him to swallow a homing device. Needless to say, Hannibal did not appreciate my helpfulness. "You did that today?"

"Yeah, and paid for it too. Unfortunately, it was terrible timing for me to realize I still need the painkiller. Now everyone thinks I'm not ready to go on the mission, but we absolutely have to go." He tapped the Sudoku book. "It's all in here. The only way we're gonna get a chance to escape Stockwell is if we're on a mission, away from home base. Here there's too much security, and all the Abel schmabels are close by. We have to keep taking missions until we find an opportunity to get away. It's the only chance we've got."

"Have you talked to Hannibal about the mission?" I asked. "Maybe you could persuade him —"

"Already tried." Face scratched his neck dejectedly. "Somehow he figured out I hadn't taken the painkiller today, so I told him I was still up for the mission. He didn't seem convinced. He's questioning why Stockwell wants so badly for us to do the mission, but I say none of that matters if we're leaving anyway."

"Why don't you just tell him about your ideas for our escape?"

"That wouldn't do any good. All the other times I've mentioned bidding Stockwell goodbye, he hasn't even given it two seconds worth of consideration."

"But that was back when we were counting on our pardons. Now that we may not get them, he might be ready to consider other options." I waved the book. "I think you've got a good start here, but we ain't going nowhere until the Colonel says so."

"Guess you're right. I'll think about it." He grimaced. "Can I ask you a very big favor?"

"Sure, Face."

"Would you mind scratching the top of my left foot? I can't bend to reach it, and it's driving me crazy!"


	6. Hannibal: Pardons and Puzzles

Hannibal: Pardons and Puzzles

After Stockwell left, Murdock brought Amy out of the kitchen. We soon found she was just as inquisitive as ever. "Who was that guy? Why did I have to hide? Will someone please tell me what is going on?"

Knowing she wouldn't stop asking until she had a full explanation, I sat her down on the couch to explain our situation and how we got here. Darkness fell, and when Murdock returned prepared to spend the night thirty minutes later, I had finally brought Miss Allen up to speed.

"Haven't you guys tried to escape?" she said when I was done. "I mean, come on, you got out of Fort Bragg; how much easier could it be here?"

I reached out and turned on the standing lamp we'd planted near the couch so Face could see his Sudoku after it got dark. My objective was more devious: I wanted to keep an eye on Miss Allen's reactions. The reason I had let her come at all and get in on our secret was because Murdock was an excellent judge of character, and her appearance had seemed to bring him out of his anxiety problem, or at least temporarily distract from it. But we still had no idea how far she could be trusted.

"It's not that simple," I said. "Without our pardons, we're wanted as capital offenders. The government has a lot more reason to track us down than before, and if they can't find us, Stockwell will. And even if we managed to evade both of them, nobody would want to hire us. As far as anyone knows, we're criminals."

Amy tilted her head to one side. "Really? Would you believe that I have a whole list of people who would hire you in a second if they needed to?"

"What do you mean?"

She smiled enigmatically. "You don't think I've been sitting idle all this time while my friends were in trouble, do you? Like I said, when I heard you guys were on trial, I came back right away, but by the time I arrived you had already been sentenced to death. They wouldn't let me see you, even with a press pass. It was very strange."

She stared into the distance as if watching the events on a TV screen. "When you were executed, I was devastated. I tried to get in touch with Murdock, but I couldn't track him down. And then they announced your bodies were missing, and you had apparently escaped. I knew you guys would be in hiding, so I did my research and found out the only way to get your charges dropped was a presidential pardon. Then I went back to L.A. and contacted all of your former clients that Tawnia and I could find, asking them to sign a petition for your pardon. So far, I have at least a thousand signatures, and some of them even wrote letters."

My jaw dropped. "A thousand signatures?"

Amy beamed. "You guys have helped a lot of people. Whole neighborhoods, in fact. People were falling over themselves to sign when they heard what we were doing. You should read the letters, too — they're very special."

I studied her, trying to pinpoint what exactly made her appear so different now than when she first walked through the door. The cropped hair and dark skirt suit were the same, but her face had lit up with excitement. All the trouble she had gone to to help us blew my mind.

"Miss Allen, answer me this. Why'd you do it? You wouldn't go out of your way to help us without a compelling reason. A front page headline, maybe?"

Amy blushed. "No. I just wanted to find you guys and make sure you could live again. I've been in D.C. for a month scoping out how to get your pardons." She picked up the water glass Face had left on the coffee table and swirled the water around inside. "And no, this is not some trick to win me a place on the team. You were right three years ago when you told me it would never work. I knew you were right; I was just . . . too stubborn to give up a reporter's dream."

I nodded, remembering the night shortly after the case where Face ran for office against Sheriff Dawson, when Amy had come to me to ask if she could be part of the A-Team for good. Her argument was that Decker already knew she was associated with us when he didn't even know that Murdock was on the team. She had gotten halfway down her list of ways she would advantage us before I stopped her. I told her if she wanted to be of use, it would have to be from the outside.

"There are two simple reasons why what you're asking won't work," I had said. "For one thing, you can't go on the run with us since we can't accommodate you and you have job obligations. For another, you were never in 'Nam with us, so no matter how long you stick around, you can never be a member of the A-Team."

"This is because I'm a woman, isn't it?" said Amy, her disappointment in my answer clear to see.

"It's because you're a reporter, not a soldier," I replied. "You can't live a soldier's life."

"But that's what I've been doing!"

Her inflated view of her qualifications was getting on my nerves. "No, what you've been doing is coming with us a few days at a time for missions and then going back to your newspaper with a story to get your paycheck. You don't have to live covering your tracks at every turn, knowing any day the MPs could knock at your door and haul you off for thirty years in the federal slammer. You've got it easy; enjoy it."

Amy tried to argue, but I laid down the law. "Look, lady, you should be grateful you're not wanted by the military and have normal life, but instead you're whining because you can't have things just the way you want them. Now, you can either keep working with us as an outsider the way you are now, or you can go find excitement somewhere else. Your choice."

"Then I guess this is goodbye," she said, tears in her eyes, and left. Soon we heard that she had been transferred to Jakarta. None of the others knew about the conversation we'd had or why she left. Later, I wondered if I'd been too hard on her; after all, she was just a kid who liked a good adrenaline rush, which was something I could relate to. But I told myself it was better she knew where things stood and stopped looking to us for something we couldn't give her.

"You still haven't answered my question," I said, breaking the silence we'd both fallen into. "Why did you come all the way from Jakarta to help us?"

Amy set the glass down and turned to me with a familiar fire in her eyes. "Because you're my friends, and you don't belong in a prison cell or in front of a firing squad. You don't belong here doing rogue missions for an ex-CIA creep who walks all over you. You belong out there," she demonstrated with a wide sweep of her arm, "helping people who can't defend themselves. That's what all the signatures and letters are about. That's why you guys are so different from the A-Team I used to know. You've lost your spirit; it's all business now, at the beck and call of this Stockwell guy. Who are you really helping now? Hannibal, can't you just get out of here?"

She was right. Ever since we'd started working for Stockwell, I'd sensed a change in my men. BA grumbled and argued more out of habit than anything, and without his work at the youth center he had little to do between missions besides maintain our equipment and the van. Once I'd stopped listening to Face's pleas to escape, Face seemed to grow more distant, keeping his thoughts to himself. Our change of situation had actually brought Murdock comparative freedom, but even though he had his own apartment, job, and girlfriend, he didn't seem to be able to enjoy them while the rest of us were in captivity. We may have traded the federal slammer for an upscale dwelling, but it was still a prison. And our political missions did little to help the everyday citizen with problems the local police would overlook.

I leaned back into the couch and sighed. "I thought Stockwell would keep his word, and we would be free after we finished the missions. Now it doesn't look like that's going to happen."

"No, it doesn't," said Amy.

I started to fish for a cigar, but I wasn't wearing my jacket, and Face wasn't there to hand me one. Besides, BA always complained when I smoked in the house. That at least hadn't changed.

"Well, if anything good came out of what happened to Face," I said slowly, "it's that I realized I don't want us to die here. Whether we die in combat or playing shuffleboard, we have the right to die as free men."

"You're absolutely right. Does that mean you'll let me submit the petition?"

I laughed. Amy still hadn't learned how to beat around the bush. "We'll have to decide as a team. In fact, it's time for a huddle before the playoff game. Could you call BA and Frankie in for a meeting? We'll begin as soon as they get the grease out from under their fingernails."

Amy headed outside while I made my way toward Face's room. I hated to wake him up if he was asleep; it didn't take his complaint this evening to tell me he didn't feel well most of the time since he'd been on painkiller. But he'd be glad to know his little incident at dinner hadn't put a damper on our pardons quite yet.

When I opened the door, the light was on and Murdock was perched on the edge of Face's bed. Both were bending over to examine something. When they saw me, they straightened up and quickly set the book they were holding behind them on the bed.

"We're having a meeting in here as soon as BA and Frankie can join us," I announced.

"That sounds good, Colonel," Murdock said, turning to Face.

"Uh, yeah," said Face helpfully, nodding. Both of them looked like they'd been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. I'd deal with that after the meeting. Soon, Amy, BA, and Frankie arrived and sat down on the other bed, and I couldn't help noticing how close to Amy Frankie sat. I claimed an area in front of the door for pacing, an essential for a good briefing, and began the meeting.

"I've called you all together to discuss a possibility that's just come up. Miss Allen has informed me that she's collected over a thousand signatures on a petition for our presidential pardons."

I paused as the men reacted with astonishment and Amy smiled.

"It doesn't sound like Stockwell's gonna come through with his end of the bargain, so we can't count on him anymore. What I want to know is, would you be interested in trying to escape Stockwell and get the pardons our way?"

Frankie shot BA a look at the same time as Murdock and Face exchanged glances. "Okay, guys, what's going on?" I demanded.

BA spoke first. "I was gonna escape and go see my momma. She's been sick, and I want to make sure she okay."

"I'm sure we can work that out," I said. "Anyone else?"

Murdock stared fixedly at Face. "Is there something I should know about, Lieutenant?" I said.

"I started making plans for how we could escape and where we'd go," said Face, avoiding eye contact.

"Here." Murdock picked up the book they had been looking at. Face put his hands up as if to protest, but Murdock was already holding the book out to me, saying, "It's all in here, past the first few pages."

I was more than a little surprised to find myself holding Face's Sudoku book, but I opened it and started flipping through. I soon came to the conclusion that, despite his decision to stick around, Face fully intended to leave again, for good.

"This is all very interesting, Face," I said. He winced as if waiting for a hammer to drop on his head. "Can you summarize what you're thinking?"

"I was just bored, I wasn't trying to—" he said in a rush, then stopped when he realized what I'd said. He took a deep breath. "The only way we can escape is if we're on a mission. With the high security surrounding the house there's no way we could get far enough before Stockwell's goons caught up with us. That's why we have to go on this mission!"

I nodded. "And why didn't you tell me that this evening? Why did you keep this," I held up the Sudoku book, "such a big secret?"

"Maybe because the last time I told you guys we should escape, nobody took me seriously!" His jaw tightened in sudden anger.

"But you've got to admit, you didn't leave," I said.

"Because I got held up every time I tried, and anyway, we can't go it alone. If we're gonna leave, we have to leave together as a team. You said so yourself today!"

"Which brings up another point." I turned to BA. "Am I to understand you were going to leave for Chicago without any warning, Sergeant?"

"Yeah." BA looked at the floor.

"Do you want to explain why you would do such a thing?"

"I thought you'd try ta stop me."

My gaze fell on each of my men in turn: BA, eyes averted but fists clenched; Frankie, pretending not to watch me anxiously; Face, briefly interrupting his resentful frown to scratch his shoulder; and Murdock, silently taking in the tension. Something had gone wrong here, and it had to do with me.

"If none of you felt free to express your concerns to me, I guess that's my fault," I said. "We've all had to adjust to our new situation, but that doesn't change the fact that we're a team. None of us has to go it alone. If there's something bothering you enough to make you want to leave, I'd like to know about it so I can help you fix the problem."

The wall of tension came partway down as everyone nodded, even Amy.

"Now, we have an important decision to make tonight. What we decide could make the difference between whether we live or die; either way, it'll be permanent. I want each of you to think carefully before answering. Do you think we should try to escape Stockwell and get the pardons ourselves, or keep working for him in the hopes that he keeps his promise?"

"I say we go!" BA declared. "I'm tired of waitin' around for this fool Stockwell an' his empty promises. I wanna go visit my momma."

Face shrugged. "You already know what my answer is. This whole arrangement was built on lies since day one. And I don't like doing someone else's dirty work."

"What I don't like is how he don't seem to care if we're alive or dead," Murdock put in. "When you were lost in that Hong Kong mission, all he wanted was the plutonium. Now he's trying to force us on a mission even if Face ain't ready to go yet."

"Of course I'm ready!" Face protested.

"Okay, guys, we'll get to that later. Frankie?"

He shifted position and threw a sideways glance at Amy. "Well, I'm already outvoted. Besides, I missed spending Christmas with my family, and I don't want to do that again."

"All right." I clapped my hands together. "Looks like we're all agreed. Operation Presidential Pardon, commencing now. We need to come up with a plan to escape, and we need to figure out how to request our pardons. Amy's gonna have to take care of that part since she's the only one who won't get arrested."

"I've researched the procedure for requesting pardons, and I can start whenever you're ready," said Amy.

"Good, there's probably a lot of red tape so you'd better get on that as soon as possible. Face, you said going on a mission is the only way to escape?"

He nodded vigorously. "Yes, and Stockwell won't give us any more missions unless we go on this one, so we have to go now."

"Didn't Stockwell say he'd give us our pardons if we did this mission right?" said Frankie.

"Yeah, and then he did a 180 when we said we weren't going," I said. "The last few times we've disagreed he's been willing to compromise, but this time it's all or nothing. Something's different about this mission. We need a backup plan in case he decides to 'modify' the deal."

"Colonel, would you mind explaining what exactly's gonna happen if our escape plan doesn't work?" said Murdock.

"Well, we'll either be killed, captured by the military and executed, or captured by Stockwell and submitted to whatever tortures he thinks best."

"Thanks, I just wanted to know where we stand." Murdock, Face, and BA didn't seem surprised, but Frankie looked a little pale.

"Everyone still game?" I asked.

"Yeah," said BA.

"Okay. Face," I handed him his book, "can you go through what you've figured out so far in here?" Normally I would have started by coming up with a plan of my own, but I wanted the kid to know his efforts were appreciated. He sometimes got in a rut of thinking his value to the team depended on his ability to get things for us, which he couldn't do much of right now.

My offer got the look of gratification I was hoping for. "Sure thing, Hannibal." He laughed. "I should warn you, I was heavily drugged while working on some of this, so hopefully I can read my own writing."

For the next half hour, we worked through the contents of the Sudoku book. Face would explain what he thought we needed to do for a particular part of the escape, and the rest of us would comment and critique until we came to a conclusion. Even Amy offered her opinion the way she used to do. Gradually, the group felt more and more like a team again.

We worked until we had a solid skeleton of a plan and Face showed signs of struggling to concentrate. I dismissed everyone to meet the next day, then went to the office to put in a call to Stockwell. I told him we'd been thinking about his offer, and since Face had a two week follow-up at the doctor's tomorrow, we'd agree to do the mission if he was cleared to go with us. Stockwell merely said he was glad we'd come to our senses, hiding any relief he might have felt at my answer.

When I opened the office door, I nearly bulldozed into Frankie. "Hey Johnny, can I talk to you for a minute?" he said.

"Sure. What is it?"

Frankie put his hands on his hips. "Don't get me wrong, it's great you guys get your pardons and all, but what about me? Amy's petition don't have my name on it, and I can't go on missions for Stockwell by myself. If you guys escape, what's gonna happen to me?"

This was a problem. A big problem. "I hadn't thought about that. Sorry, Frankie. Tell you what, I'll start coming up with a plan right away."

"Better make it a good one," he said, and headed for the stairs.

I stood in the hallway for a moment and listened to the sounds of the house: shutting doors, running water, BA's heavy footsteps. I needed to find Amy and show her where she'd be sleeping tonight. We'd have a full house.

Laughter floated out from Face and Murdock's room. Good, that's what I'd been hoping for. By asking Murdock to help out Face and the rest of us, I'd asked him to help out himself, knowing Face had the best chance of getting him to work out his anxiety problem. Murdock's helping Face open up about his escape plans was an added bonus. At least part of my team was content. I had a long night ahead trying to find a way not to leave Frankie behind. The A-Team never left anyone behind.


	7. Face: Mangling the Mission

Face: Mangling the Mission

It wasn't my fault, I told myself for the hundredth time, but the thought still wasn't much consolation as Murdock and I sat in the van, listening over the walkie-talkies while the other three carried out what should have been a four-man mission. We had planned on four, I had reminded Hannibal, and I was still capable of driving, as I stated multiple times, but to no avail. I had even argued that if we were still in the army he would have let me do it, to which Hannibal replied, "If we were still in the army, you wouldn't even be in the field right now, Lieutenant!" That's when I knew it was hopeless.

"When I'm worried, and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep."

Murdock's voice, or rather his imitation of Bing Crosby's rich baritone, sang softly from the driver's seat next to me. Last week, when I was spending the days before Christmas flat on my back and kind of high on pain meds, Murdock had taken the opportunity to pull out all the Christmas movies ever made and tasked Frankie with playing them on the VCR in a running loop so I wouldn't get bored. _White Christmas_ was one I vaguely recalled seeing snatches of between naps and then watching again on Christmas day at Murdock's request. He seemed to enjoy all the songs and dance routines, and today his excitement about our mission had been coming out in the form of lyrics and quotes from the movie.

"And I fall asleep, counting my blessings."

If only this whole fiasco were over so I could have the luxury of falling asleep in a real bed instead of in the passenger seat. I squirmed, looking for a new position to ease the pressure in my left side. After the long drive yesterday and today, I could feel every inch of the seat frame through the inadequate padding. But I guess I should have been counting my blessings. After all, yesterday the doctor had cleared me for travel and "mild exertion," so Hannibal called Stockwell and told him we would accept the mission. Stockwell had briefed us, and here we were, halfway up a snow-carpeted mountainside in Vermont — which may have factored into Murdock's choice of which musical to channel.

On top of that, we got to take out one of the most underrated lowlifes in the North American criminal network. Stuart Lisle was one of the many names that came up in the Bancroft diary. Unlike some of the others, Lisle wasn't so much a player himself as a middle man, but he'd still accumulated enough funds to construct a miniature mansion in the side of a mountain for carrying out his deals undetected or laying low as needed. Ever since the Bancroft diary came to light, the CIA had been searching for him to bring him to justice. And just two days ago, he'd been found at last. Hidden in a virtual fortress with armed guards, security cameras, electric fencing, and the like, he could only be reached if an extraction team could find a way inside and get him out before he had a chance to escape. That's where we came in.

It was a standard extraction, like we'd done a thousand times before: acquire a Trojan horse, get inside the walls, and leave with the target. But there was one variable that was making what should have been a simple job complicated. Unfortunately, that variable was me.

"Hannibal," came BA's voice with a burst of static over the walkie-talkie, "there's a light in the basement, and I can hear a motor."

"On my way," Hannibal replied. "Frankie, keep an eye on the exit."

"Got it, Johnny."

I sighed, and Murdock paused his song to glance at me. "You okay?" he said.

"Yeah." Physically, I was as good as could be expected, and I'd done my job. Half of it, anyway.

I clamped down on another sigh. Even the reduced dosage of painkiller the doctor had authorized wasn't enough to eliminate side effects. Yesterday, I'd found out very quickly that pain meds and winding mountain roads were a bad combo. Thankfully, I could also knock myself out with Dramamine, but today that hadn't really been an option. Today, my job included driving the van away from the Lisle place once the team made it out with Lisle, but first I had to scam a delivery truck from the company that delivered groceries to Lisle's hideout. The truck was our only way to get inside fast and undetected, and hopefully get out the same way.

The delivery company's truck lot was located two hours down the road from the hotel where we'd spent the night. By the time we pulled in, I was thoroughly motion sick, but I had a job to do. The rest of the team was depending on me, and I had to prove to them that going on this mission had been the right choice, and I was capable of seeing it through to the end. So I strode into the company office, did the fastest scam of my life, got the truck keys, brought them out and handed them to Hannibal, and promptly succumbed to the effects of carsickness in the nearest bush.

Anyone who's had an abdominal injury will tell you, the worst part is that absolutely everything you do hurts. The slightest movement, even breathing, can be agonizing during those first few days, because you use your core muscles for everything, all the time. Even once the pain has lessened — say, because it's two weeks later and you've been taking pain meds — any sudden strain on the abdomen — say, your stomach deciding it's had enough of winding roads — will be, as I'm sure you can imagine, excruciating. So if I wasn't exactly ready to get behind the wheel of the van the moment after I got sick, that would seem to be understandable. But logically, it would follow that once the pain came under control, I could function again, and I could drive the van. Unfortunately, Hannibal failed to make that logical connection. He assumed since he had to help me stand up straight and then support me back to the van that I was permanently out of commission.

"We're changing the plan," he announced as Frankie and Murdock made room for me to sit down right inside the van door. I avoided eye contact with them and BA. It wasn't so much that I was embarrassed about throwing up in front of them — we'd seen each other in every imaginable condition in 'Nam alone, much less in the last ten years on the run together — but I couldn't help feeling like they were all expecting me not to come through on this mission, and they were just waiting for me to fall apart and fulfill their predictions. I shook my head, pushing away what I hoped was just painkiller-induced paranoia as Hannibal continued talking.

"Murdock," he said, "you'll follow us in the van to the rendezvous point and wait there with Face while BA, Frankie, and I take the truck to the hideout and find Lisle."

That was when I started arguing, but Hannibal shut me down almost immediately. That was also when I had started shivering, which definitely didn't help my case.

I glanced out the windshield at the tire tracks on the snowy road ahead and shivered again. In the middle of a 30 degree (not counting wind chill) winter day in Vermont, the sunny beaches of L.A. had never sounded so good. Curse Stockwell and his missions, I thought. Only a few more hours, and we could be rid of him for good. All our essentials were strategically packed in the back of the van, and I and the rest of the team awaited Hannibal's decision for our next move. Yesterday, after our official meeting with Stockwell, we'd held another meeting to plan out the mission and what came afterward. If upon delivering Lisle, Stockwell gave us our pardons, we would take our leave his way. If not, we would drive across the border to Canada and go from there. Personally, I kind of hoped we'd go to Canada just so I could see my months of planning put into action. But that took L.A. out of the picture, not to mention any possibility of living normal lives. I sighed again.

Murdock turned his gaze from the road and cocked his head at me, eyebrows raised. "What's wrong?"

He wasn't going to let me off without an answer. I deliberately shrugged. "I don't know, I was just thinking . . . what's gonna happen if we don't get our pardons? I mean . . . what are we going to do?"

Murdock had just opened his mouth when the walkie-talkie exploded to life. "We've got him," came Hannibal's voice. "Get the van ready, we're coming out!"

Turning on the ignition, Murdock backed the van up against the roadblock of a couple trees we'd thrown together earlier. The plan was for BA to bring the delivery truck up to the trees, where the team would bring Lisle out and pile into the van so we could take off, leaving any pursuers from the Lisle establishment stuck behind the roadblock long enough to give us a head start. Then we'd meet Stockwell, turn over Lisle, and the rest would be history. My stomach did a little flop, which could have been from Murdock's driving, or it could have been because it was finally hitting me: the future of the A-Team was starting right now.

Out of nowhere, a black car sped around the bend in the road ahead, coming straight for us.

"Uh, Murdock?" I nudged him, but his eyes were already glued on the intruder.

"We can't move," he said, squeezing the steering wheel. "We're backed up against the roadblock."

The car came to a stop stretched diagonally across the road five feet from our front bumper. We couldn't go anywhere now without taking the vehicle with us. Murdock reached down and slid his M16 onto his lap, and I did the same. Anyone traveling on this tiny back road in the middle of the Vermont forest the day before New Year's probably wasn't here for the fireworks . . . unless they planned to set some off at the Lisle place.

Three car doors opened, and three men in military-type heavy coats got out, two from the front and one from the back, brandishing assault rifles of their own. They hurriedly crunched through the snow to take positions in front of Murdock's and my doors, one of them running around the side.

"Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands up!" the one next to me shouted.

Murdock and I exchanged glances. "How are we going to let Hannibal know?" I whispered quickly.

"I don't know," Murdock replied, and opened his door. I followed suit, dropping my M16 onto the ground and carefully stepping down. My gunman grabbed my arm and jerked me forward a few steps.

"Ah ah ah, careful," I gasped, wincing. I looked up to see a fourth figure rising out of the car. His head came into view, and he flashed me a wide smile as my heart stopped. Stockwell.

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," he said, approaching. "I was expecting you, Mr. Peck, but I don't believe the original plan included your staying in the van, Mr. Murdock."

"We changed the plan," Murdock said flatly.

I blinked. Stockwell hadn't been in on our tactical strategizing. "Wait," I stammered, "how did you know what the plan was?"

The corner of Stockwell's mouth twitched. "The same way I found out about what you have in mind to do after this mission, Mr. Peck."

I swallowed as the meaning of his words sunk in. Stockwell must have left a bug in the den during our briefing, and since we hadn't thought to check for it, he'd overheard our "private" meeting. Our chances of escaping him now were slim to none. And with Stockwell's history of changing his mind on the slightest whim, our pardons could go "poof" any second. If only Hannibal were here to employ the quick thinking, blunt diplomacy he used to reason with drug lords and secret agents alike. With the walkie-talkies in the van there was no way to know how the mission was progressing, but if all went according to plan, he should be arriving any minute now.

Stockwell must have been thinking along the same lines, because he said, "Now we will situate ourselves and wait. It wouldn't do for Colonel Smith to find us unprepared. Abel 3, Abel 9, bring them over here."

The Abels pulled Murdock and me away from the van to where Stockwell stood. Then one of the Abels took hold of Murdock about the same time the general came up behind me and grabbed my left arm, pulling me close to him as I felt ice-cold metal press into my right temple. A click I'd heard more times than I could count, but almost never this close to my ear, sent an involuntary shudder through my entire body. Under a layer of rising panic, I realized my worst nightmare was about to come true: I was going to be used as a hostage to force the A-Team to do whatever Stockwell wanted.

All was quiet… the deep quiet of a snowy Vermont forest in the heart of which six men, three with assault rifles, one with a pistol, stood incongruously, waiting. The snow surrounding my shoes was starting to freeze my toes, and the wind ripped at my face, but in the present circumstances I was noticing less and less. I couldn't see Murdock. He was somewhere on my right, and I couldn't turn my head to see him. I wanted to call out, wanted desperately to hear his voice, to know he was still there and he hadn't left me all alone…

 _Stop it,_ I told myself. _You're letting fear control you. Everything will be okay. Murdock is still there, and Hannibal and BA and Frankie are coming. We've been in worse situations. Hannibal will know what to do. Stockwell would never actually kill me... would he?_

Our discussion about Stockwell's motives earlier this week came to mind. I could hear Murdock's words repeating like a broken record in my mind: _All he wanted was the plutonium. All he wanted was the plutonium. All he wanted was the plutonium._

The mouth of the pistol pushed relentlessly into my head, continually frustrating all my attempts to distract myself. I had my share of battle scars, but two weeks ago was the first time I'd ever been gut shot, not to mention almost bleeding to death. Every sudden move I made triggered a reminder of the most excruciating pain I'd ever experienced, and now as my left side throbbed from the tension of holding still, I couldn't help wondering if a bullet to the head would feel the same way. I'd seen men die from head wounds. The bullet would shatter my skull and leave a messy trail right through the middle of my brain, followed by an explosion of pain beyond imagination... I knew exactly how it was going to feel. And I didn't know if I could face that kind of pain all over again — if I could die courageously at the hands of Stockwell in the middle of the forest, knowing that white-hot burn was the last feeling I would ever feel.

Stockwell suddenly tightened his grip on my arm and shoved the pistol harder into my skull. I shuddered again, my stomach twisting into an even tighter knot. Noise in the distance gradually came to my attention, and I realized a vehicle was speeding down the road ahead towards the back of BA's van. It was a large white delivery truck. It stopped behind the van and stayed there for a minute. Then the passenger door opened, and a man got out and walked towards us, holding an AR15 pointed at the ground. It was Hannibal.

"Drop the gun and come forward," called Stockwell.

Hannibal obeyed, and came closer until Stockwell told him to stop. He met my gaze and held it as if he could tell I was suffocating, and as I looked into the eyes of the commander who had led me through hell and back, I started to breathe a little easier. Then his gaze shifted to Murdock for a few seconds before returning to my captor.

"What's going on, Stockwell?" he said in the tone he uses when he's on a very short fuse.

Stockwell gave a brief, humorless laugh. "I told you at the beginning that I was going to take care of my investment, but apparently you gentlemen underestimated my security. Full of holes, indeed."

"What do you mean?" said Hannibal.

"You certainly didn't think you'd be leaving the country without my knowledge, did you, Colonel Smith?"

Hannibal's hands balled into fists. "Leaving was only our second option, in case you didn't come through on your deal."

Stockwell laughed again. "Oh, Colonel, I think you know me better than that. My word is good; yours, apparently, is not. And I think you know what I do with anyone who tries to break a deal with me."

That was definitely a death threat.

"We did not break the deal," said Hannibal. "We completed the mission and got your man."

"Where is he?"

Hannibal pointed to the delivery truck. "He's in there with BA and Frankie. We suspected trouble when Murdock and Face didn't answer on the walkie-talkies, so we decided I'd come out alone."

"Go tell your men to bring him out, and remember, no weapons . . ." he pushed the pistol even harder into my head ". . . or Peck is the first to go."

I would have tensed up if I could have possibly gotten any more tense. As it was, every muscle in my body was as taut as the strings of a new guitar, and even then I was shaking — which could have also been from cold, since I had just noticed my teeth were chattering too. It was like I was feeling everything from a great distance away, as if I wasn't part of my own body anymore. So while my body shook and ached and panicked, I watched the doors to the delivery truck open and BA and Frankie climb out, keeping hold of a wiry, gray-haired man who I assumed was Lisle.

"Take him," Stockwell ordered the two unoccupied Abels. One grabbed Lisle while the other covered him, and they walked back behind us. A car door opened and shut. I wondered why they didn't see the need to cover BA, Frankie, and Hannibal as they approached Stockwell . . . but then I remembered. I groaned internally. The A-Team was under Stockwell's thumb more than ever before, and all because of me.

"There," said Hannibal. "We did what you asked. We delivered your man, and we completed the mission. What more do you want?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Stockwell. "Perhaps a guarantee that you won't ever reveal my operations to outsiders will suffice."

"We can do that, can't we guys?" Hannibal looked at Frankie and BA, who nodded vigorously. "See?" he said sardonically. "We won't tell. Can we please go now?"

"Not quite. You have failed to honor our agreement, and I remain unconvinced that, were I to release the five of you back into the world, someday one of you won't arbitrarily discuss our dealings, whether in an exclusive press release or in a psychiatrist's office."

He tightened his grip on my arm. "But how much simpler, if I were to eliminate that possibility entirely here and now. I'm sure a convincing story could be arranged."

My distant sense of self told me my breathing was coming fast . . . too fast. I looked at Hannibal, the fear flickering on his face for an instant before being replaced by determination. I looked at BA, his mouth screwed up in a defiant scowl. I looked at Frankie, standing as stiff as a mannequin on Main Street. I thought of Murdock, standing under a gun a few feet away. And I knew that today was just like any other day with my team. We had all accepted death a long time ago, and if it was our day to die, we would go out together. But whatever happened, we would go out fighting.

"Well, that might just be the biggest mistake you ever made, General."

Hannibal, BA, and Frankie registered surprise as they turned to look at the speaker: Murdock.

"And why is that, Captain Murdock?" Stockwell replied. I couldn't tell if he sounded slightly amused or slightly annoyed.

"Because the A-Team has done more for the common people of America than you or any of your goons ever did," said Murdock.

"My 'goons,' as you call them, and I save these common people from living in a country full of crime and rampant corruption."

"That may be partly true, but I've been around, and the one thing I've learned is there'll always be crime and corruption. The question is whether the good people can stand up to it. And the A-Team helps them to do just that. You may have gotten rid of some of the high-profile threats, but the A-Team has saved the lives and homes and businesses and families of countless people across the nation and around the world. If you really want to do something good for this country, let these men go back to doing what they were doing before you came in and tried to turn it all to profit yourself."

The silence stretched on for days. . . months. . . years. I wanted nothing more than to see Stockwell's expression, but all I could do was watch Hannibal, BA, and Frankie, whose faces were frozen in barely masked anticipation. How would Stockwell's ego respond to the blunt statements of a man currently held at gunpoint, with no power on his side?

"As I said before, Captain Murdock," came Stockwell's voice, startling me, "whoever declared you insane should have his license lifted."

His grip on me loosened slightly, sending a wave of relief through my whole being.

"Under the circumstances," he continued, "I will choose to overlook the tone of the remarks in favor of recognizing their validity. I think I know you gentlemen well enough to trust that you will refrain from sharing. . . unnecessary information regarding our time together, just as you know me well enough to know how I will deal with any such violation of trust. Our agreement is as follows: upon receiving your guarantee of complete secrecy, I will release you all and make the necessary arrangements for your pardons. Do I have your word?"

"I give you my word," said Hannibal immediately.

"And mine," BA and Frankie added simultaneously.

"You have my word, General," said Murdock.

"Me too," I said, once I could get my mouth working around my chattering teeth.

"Excellent. The deal is done. You are free to go, and you will receive a call shortly when your pardons have been guaranteed."

At last, the cold muzzle and gut-wrenching threat of death were gone. I focused on breathing just deeply enough to calm down without aggravating the ache in my side. It was only when Murdock came up to me and started talking that I realized Stockwell had walked off and was conversing with Hannibal several feet away.

"Face, are you okay?" He moved directly in front of me. "Face? Talk to me."

"I'm okay," I said, teeth still chattering.

"You're shaking. Here." He took off his coat and laid it on top of mine. "Come on, let's get you back to the van."

With an effort I took a step, but my foot was almost numb, and I would have fallen if Murdock hadn't caught me.

"Take it easy, buddy, I got you." He slipped an arm around me. "Now we'll take it nice and slow."

I was only vaguely aware of what happened after that. At some point BA came up and supported me on the other side, and then I threw up again, and then I was in the van, wrapped in coats and blankets with what felt like a huge burning hole in my side. Then BA produced a mug of hot chicken broth from out of nowhere, and Murdock helped me drink it since my hands were shaking so much. After that I started feeling a little better, and soon Hannibal and Frankie appeared.

"It's done," said Hannibal. "We've got our pardons."

Cheers erupted from everyone, and I managed a small smile. At last. The day we'd been waiting for for almost fifteen years. We were free.

"How'd we get them so fast?" asked Murdock.

"Apparently Miss Allen's petition was already being processed, and I managed to persuade Stockwell to make the call right away from his car phone. I think he's getting a little soft."

"Soft?!" Frankie exclaimed. "You call what just happened soft?"

Hannibal came over and put a hand on my shoulder. "How you doing, kid?"

"Fine," I said, still having to make an effort to talk. Now that the blankets and chicken broth had warmed me up a bit, I could feel the familiar exhaustion and trembling from coming off adrenaline, on top of the stabbing pain in my side that didn't seem to want to go away. And my enthusiasm about our pardons died as I remembered we had almost bought the farm instead, because of me.

"He was so cold he could hardly walk, Colonel," said Murdock.

"And he got sick again," BA put in.

I suppressed a sigh just before it got painful. It wasn't my imagination: all they noticed was how I couldn't do the mission right. No matter how hard I tried, my body wouldn't cooperate, and I not only ruined the mission, but I'd put my closest friends' lives in danger in the process. Hannibal was right about Stockwell using me as collateral, and he was right that we shouldn't have gone on the mission. But I had insisted.

All things considered, I wasn't really surprised when Hannibal looked at me closely and said I was still shaking and he wanted to keep an eye on me, so we would stop at the next town for the night. At that point, I was too tired to argue, so everyone piled in the van and we headed out.

By the time we pulled into the parking lot of an ice-capped Vermontian motel, I was back to being barely cognizant as a cloud of weariness, nausea, and pain overwhelmed what little brainpower I had left. Hannibal led me from the van to a room and helped me slide out of my clothes and into bed. I conked out immediately, but sleep didn't come peacefully. As a soldier, one of the first things you learn is that sometimes, your worst enemy is your own mind. And when the nightmares come, your best friend is the person who sticks by you and brings you back to the real world. Hannibal stuck by me, waking me from the bad dreams of capture and dying and watching everyone else die and then talking me out of disorientation time and time again.

Somewhere around the hundred-and-seventy-sixth time I awoke, I asked what time it was.

"It's almost midnight," said Hannibal. "They'll drop the ball in Times Square soon."

I had to think about this for a few seconds. "Tomorrow's New Year's Day," I said slowly. "I forgot about that."

Hannibal laughed a little. "Not the best New Year's Eve we've ever had, is it? But we did get our pardons."

"So maybe it has been our best New Year's Eve," I said.

"Maybe so." He smiled. "You want to watch the ball drop?"

"Sure." Watching the ball drop was a New Year's tradition for the team, but somehow, it didn't seem right to do it with only half the team in the room. "Do you think the other guys are still up?"

"I can check." He left and came back with BA, Murdock, and Frankie. Murdock immediately sat down beside me on the bed, lifting an eyebrow significantly and giving me a deep Italian "Hello, beautiful," before turning to the TV. BA carried in a bag of potato chips, and Frankie brought drinks. Hannibal turned on the TV, and once everyone got comfortable on the beds with their food, all was quiet as the reporters bantered with each other and the camera panned over the crowds and the lights and the ticker tape of Times Square, New York City. The only sound was rustling and crunching as BA's chips were passed around. I decided I could handle a couple myself, and I was just beginning to savor a mouthful of salty, grease-saturated potatoes in one of their best forms when the countdown began at 11:59. The five-foot-diameter ball of lights, mostly red except for a green stem to resemble a "big apple," descended the flagpole atop the skyscraper One Times Square for sixty seconds to reach the bottom at exactly 12:00 a.m.

As the crowd in Times Square celebrated with yelling and cheering and noisemakers and hugging and kissing, the members of the A-Team in a tiny Vermont motel celebrated with cheers of "Happy New Year!" and shoulder-punching and back-slapping and Murdock's expert two-fingered whistle. Even though the festivities were not the most elaborate we'd ever had, a sense of warmth and gratitude pervaded the atmosphere more deeply than past New Years celebrations. No one had to say what we were all thinking: that today marked the beginning of a not only a new year, but a new era. Today, we were the A-Team, and we were free.


End file.
